Black Tattered Eyes
by Blurred Memories
Summary: "So young, with great unrefined powers running through her veins and darkness cloaked in flawless alabaster skin, but heavy-lidded eyes so dull. What is existence without a purpose? Without a... mentor?" A short tale about Bellatrix Lestrange. One-sided Bellamort, that's not the main focus though.
1. Shadow Curtain

**Disclaimer:** We all know I don't own these amazing characters.

The title of this story is taken from _"Texia"_ , a beautiful song by Blossoms.

All mistakes are mine, sorry about that.

* * *

 **Chapter I**

 **SHADOW CURTAIN**

 **oOo**

Brittle bones clad in dark tattered cloth hovering above her, just a bag of rotting bones that apparently still holds the power to suck away everything she has left: the lonely speck of light swimming in the black ocean of her orbs, the air inside her corrupted lungs, her tainted soul. Everything.

Raven-black curls shield her pretty face, lifting slightly from where her breath is coming out in short puffs. And suddenly she's falling, spiraling down the depths of her own mind. Pitch-black's all she can see, yet she recognizes the shadows around her, the familiar way they sigh their welcome back.

She finds herself dreading the endless fall while being engulfed by old fears she thought forgotten. And suddenly it's like being her old self all over again, the silly little thing she was before he came into her life. So young, with great unrefined powers running through her veins and darkness cloaked in flawless alabaster skin, but heavy-lidded eyes so dull. What is existence without a purpose? Without a... mentor?

She had never truly lived until he made her his best lieutenant. And she fell in love with a man who wasn't a man any longer, a man whose ambition was so great it had destroyed everything human in his nature. A chest filled with cold ashes cannot love back, a one-track mind never cares about anything else, a bloodshot stare is blind to true devotion. But still she loved him, still she followed him until he was no more, still she hoped someday he would come back.

Memories of him tinge the darkness around her with a whole new color that reminds her of the most vivid light, and so the chase begins... And she starts to remember.

She remembers what a privilege it was to be able to learn from him, how glorious it felt to become stronger each day under his watchful eye. She remembers being filled with pride whenever he was pleased with her, wanting nothing more than to feed upon his praises until the end of her days. She remembers feeling completely safe by his side, almost as drunk on power as he was. Once you take a taste you can never forget its intoxicating sweetness.

She could definitely use some of that sense of safety right now, she would give anything to feel that way again. But the solace provided by the memory doesn't linger, it lasts but for a moment and it's soon taken away by the dementor's kiss.

A mirrored image of the grim empty-eyed creature floating mid-air flashes across her wide orbs.

She screams.

And when she cannot scream any longer, curled up on the damp stone floor of her cell, she does what Bellatrix Lestrange has never done before: she begs.

She wraps her tongue around the unfamiliar words, she forces them past her chapped lips, she tries to forget their bitter taste as soon as they leave her mouth.

A feeble voice lost in the loud silence, she begs for him to come. She calls his name, over and over again. Slurred syllables dripping with longing, bound to fall on deaf ears.

And she thinks maybe this is it, maybe that's how it all ends... in darkness.

 _Go on then_ , she mentally addresses the dark creature looming over her, _unhinge your jaw and devour my soul once and for all. Make it quick. Just make it all stop._

Burning cold surrounds her as she prays for the numbness to claim her spent body at last.


	2. Don't Let Me Die

**Chapter II**

 **DON'T LET ME DIE**

 **oOo**

Black ragged cloth billowing in gusts of freezing cold air is the last thing she remembers seeing, its details etched in her memory for she thought it to be the last thing she'd ever seen.

Black is also the color of the disheveled hair of the faceless man who's bending over her and from her angle it actually looks like an ink waterfall.

Is she dead? She sure thought she would be by now but she can tell she isn't because there's pain; her whole body hurts, every inch of skin is aflame.

It's so hard to keep her eyes open; stabbed by the dim light of the room, they sting. It's all a blur of lights and shadows flickering before her. Eventually, she gives up trying to make out the stranger's features and allows her heavy lids to fall shut.

Let soothing darkness shape her perceptions instead.

Icy cold fingertips reach out to brush aside some strands of hair plastered to the sweaty skin of her forehead; she sighs against the cool caress. The gesture in itself feels swift and detached but it's human contact nonetheless and for the tiniest moment it almost seems to quench her thirst.

If only she could gather some of her strength she would grip the stranger's wrist and yank on it until he sat down by her side. She would whisper: stay.

She always gets afraid when she's in pain, afraid to be left alone. Yes, even Bellatrix Lestrange is not immune to certain human fears.

When she was little and she got ill she used to beg her sisters to keep her company, she recalls how Andromeda would always choose to stick around... but it's no use thinking about the goddamned blood-traitor now. Narcissa, on the other hand, would always find excuses to get away. So beautiful and yet so cold, she is indeed a true Black, born and bred to live up to her name; she fills Bellatrix with pride.

Yet the blond witch distanced herself from the raven-haired sibling and her rejection still hurts even more than Andromeda's betrayal.

The dark-haired wizard's deep voice pulls her from her thoughts, a voice that cannot possibly be mistaken for another.

"She's too weak, my Lord."

Snape, of course; that sneaky little bastard. She wonders if her face reflects her loathing right now. But... _my Lord?_ Does this mean... Is he really in the same room with her? Has he come for her? Will he stay? Will he help her heal herself? Will he wait by her side? So many questions crowding her mind and only one plea: _speak again, master_.

"How long until she can fight?"

 _I'll be ready soon, my Lord, I'll get better and fight for you... always._

"I'm not even sure she can make it until morning."

 _Shut up, you filthy liar traitor! Tell him, master, tell him how wrong he is. Tell him your most faithful servant would never run from the battlefield._

"Such a pity..."

 _A... pity?_ Her tired mind tries to process the Dark Lord's words as they seep through her skin and bones, instilling the most dreaded doubt.

She wants to scream until her lungs are raw, except they are already, as it is her throat, and no sound comes out. She wants to thrash and turn onto what they think will be her deathbed but she's a prisoner inside her own body, a body turned to stone.

 _Touch me, master. Won't you even touch me?_

"Well leave her then, Severus, others are in need of your skills."

Her chest is ripped open, her heart is bare for him to see the wounds he inflicted; truth is, it has always been bare for him to tear apart. She did offer it up herself.

Her blood is a slave to his voice, it keeps pouring out. There, he could taste the life she gave him but he won't have any. She still isn't good enough.

Loud echoes of retreating footsteps. _Don't leave me._ Coldness washing all over her body. _I gave you my everything._

Eyes still closed, she knows she's alone in the room with Snape now, but not for much longer. If he's half as smart as he brags to be, he'll follow orders and leave.

Warm tears flow through her long dark eyelashes and down her deathly-pale cheeks; calloused fingerpads come to brush them away. Her eyes fly open only to gaze upon a pair of orbs as black as her own, and in those obsidian depths, she swears she can see the flicker of a most familiar affliction.

This is not the way she had planned to go out, laying in bed being pitied by Snape, disowned by her master, feared by her own sister. The battlefield had always seemed a more befitting place to be when hailing Death.

"I know I will regret this one day but... I cannot let you die." Snape's unpredicted words are barely above a whisper when they reach her ears. Eyes still locked together, for a moment what they are to each other doesn't matter anymore and suddenly she knows he's going to hear her plea.

 _Don't let me die._

* * *

 **AN:** What Snape is offering is not love and it's not pity... in my mind, he's rather experiencing some sort of empathy towards Bellatrix. He still doesn't trust her but he is a good man at heart and cannot bring himself to just let her die, especially after seeing her pain and knowing what it feels like to lose everything on the Dark Lord. She allows herself to cling to him in this particular moment on the base of that same feeling, what she thinks of him hasn't changed though.

Bellatrix hasn't really seen the error of her ways, I mean, I like to explore her weakness here and the way her perception of Voldemort changes but she still believes what she has been taught, she still believes in pureblood supremacy. Personally, I just can't write a story in which she turns out to be a good person but I like being able to catch a glimpse of her humanity because she definitely holds some deep within her (unlike her master).


	3. Flesh and Bone and Blood

**Chapter III**

 **FLESH AND BONE AND BLOOD**

 **oOo**

Bellatrix Lestrange grips the edge of the bathroom sink, her knuckles almost as white as the porcelain she's clinging to, staring at her reflection for the very first time in many years.

When was the last time she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror? She cannot remember. What she does remember, however, is the way she looked back then, for it would be impossible to forget even a single detail of the best time of her life.

And it hurts more than she thought it would, seeing the signs of change etched on the skin she's wearing; they cannot be ignored, they demand to be acknowledged. Old scars, fresh bruises and faded tattoos adorn the body of the woman who's staring back at her, the body of a survivor, a body that looks familiar but doesn't feel quite right to fit into.

 _I look just like the hell I've been through_ , she thinks to herself. It's not just a matter of vanity though. There was a time she would have been proud of all these battle scars but, right now, looking at them makes her feel sick. Each flaw scattered across her sickly pale skin seems to read "fool".

A fool, yes, that's exactly what she is.

None of this makes sense anymore.

She loosens her grip on the sink's edge so that her fingertips can slightly graze the skin of her inner left forearm, tentatively tracing the jet black snake and skull she has been staring non-stop for the last few weeks spent in bed. Fourteen years... for fourteen long years the Dark Mark had looked very faded and she had wanted nothing more than to see it return to its original vividness, the proof that he would have come to save her. How many times had she watered it with her own tears, hoping they held the power to darken the ink somehow? She had wished for it, prayed for it every day and every night.

And now her wish has been granted. Now her tattoo looks like it used to, burns like it used to; with the blackness came the pain. She doesn't mind. Nothing matters, not anymore.

 _My body, just another thing I lost to him. This flesh bears his marks, he owns it. The night I left Azkaban behind my back I_ thought _I was finally free,_ but _he was just claiming back a possession; it was about him, not me. And when he saw his little soldier was broken it seemed only logical to toss it away instead of trying to piece it back together. What a waste of time. Didn't even flinch, did he?_

Her breath gets caught in her throat as his words play again and again inside of her head. She hugs herself; arms crossing over her pounding heart, hands gripping her bony shoulders. Skin to skin, no barrier in-between.

She's wearing a simple deep blue nightgown that leaves an awful lot of skin exposed and threatens to fall off her way-too-thin figure any minute now. Her shaky fingers wander across her body; guided by a desperate need to reconnect with the shell she's in, they stroke, they squeeze, they probe... not a single inch is left unexamined. She feels nothing but jutting bones and general flimsiness under the palms of her hands; nothing familiar there.

And she gets frustrated, she gets angry.

And she finds herself clawing at her own skin in an attempt to rip it apart.

That's when she notices her nails are different. Shorter. Dull. Incapable of carrying out her vision.

That's odd. Sha had gotten used to the way they looked when she was still in her cell; they were very long, all chipped and with dirt underneath them. She actually preferred them like that, they suited her better than these... stumps.

Snape is the only one she's been seeing lately, no one but him ever comes to her room. He must have taken care of the problem, he must have fixed her nails out of fear she might try to scratch his face in a fit of anger. Smart.

And he must have done that using magic because she really can't picture Severus Snape actually sitting down by her side to clip her nails. The very idea is enough to bring a weak smile to her faded lips.

Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, its corners crooked in a way that seems beyond Bellatrix Lestrange.

She runs a hand through her unruly curls, breathing out a deep sigh.

She needs to find something, anything, that reminds her of who she truly is. What she's looking at is no body of hers. She needs to see, to _feel_ Bella... again. Or maybe for the first time.

Her hand glides from the back of her head to the side of her neck, wrapping itself around her throat.

All she sees now are her eyes.

Her index finger traces her sharp jawline as her thumb finds her bottom lip.

All she is is right there, swimming in the blackness underneath the glassy surface. And now she can see. And now there's one thing she's able to recognize.

Her mind's racing, her heart's pounding against her ribcage.

Dull and lifeless but blazing with rage at the same time, her black orbs are the most fearsome gaze one could ever meet.

And someone just did.

The slightest gasp pulls Bellatrix out of her thoughts. Her eyes focus on another area of the mirror, the one where she can see the figure standing in the doorway of her room, through the bathroom door that she left open.

And suddenly she needs to reach for the sink's edge once again, for her knees have never felt weaker. She keeps staring at the reflection, afraid it'll vanish if she turns around.

Lips slightly parted in surprise, her hungry eyes drink in the blond witch's features. Is she real? Has her sister finally come to her? Scorching black meets icy blue. A violent shiver runs through them both, their shared blood calling out.

 _You're so beautiful._

Bellatrix doesn't realize she's panting, her whole body reverberating with the pounding of her heart. The only thing she's aware of is her need to hug her sister after all the years spent apart, and if she has to crawl over to her feet in order to do that then so be it.

She spins around, trusting her knees with just one whispered word: Cissy.

The affectionate nickname graces her lips but for an instant, for in the blink of an eye it's dead and the doorway empty.

Taken aback, Bellatrix keeps staring at the space Narcissa just left vacant, her vision starting to blur with welling tears.

 _Why?_

Eyes wide, she shakes her head and blinks the hurt away.

 _Why?_

She turns around again.

She looks at herself in the mirror and it's like an invisible veil has been lifted, flowing away with her tears. And there's blood. Crimson streaks are smeared across her face, down her neck, all over her body. Turns out she succeeded in tearing the skin of her forearms apart even with short nails. Her own fingertips drew those lines from there. What was it that they were after? Ah, yes, _herself_.

She looks insane. She is insane. And she has found what she was looking for.

"What exactly do you think you're doing, pray tell." Snape's deep voice comes out in his most authoritative tone, making her feel like a little girl again, afraid of the punishment that would follow her father's words.

And she falls.

* * *

 **For Hydra:** First of all, hi and thank you very much for taking the time to write such an exhaustive comment. You're absolutely right about Bella and Voldemort's relationship, it is indeed incredibly complex and very well crafted (kudos to JK Rowling for that). I agree, Bellatrix is undoubtedly special to her master in a way but I believe him to be the epitome of self-absorption and, as such, I'm sure he would always choose himself over her. While writing the "rejection scene" I had the feeling that I was, in fact, rushing it all a bit too much but for the sake of this story I needed something to wake Bella from her state of blind devotion, also I guessed that at that time he was more preoccupied with numbers, wanting to quickly rebuild a great army... That isn't very smart considering Bella's faithfulness and skills are unique (as you correctly pointed out) but, as we know, Voldemort is easily blinded and he's no stranger to foolish decisions. Maybe you won't continue reading this story but I would like to thank you anyway for reading this far and for leaving your review.

 **For Taylor:** Hi! Thank you so much for reviewing, I definitely look forward to writing more scenes between Narcissa and Bellatrix (still not done with the two of them), hope you won't be disappointed.

 **Thanks also to the other people who reviewed and to all the silent readers as well.**


	4. Whispers Through A Mask

**Chapter IV**

 **WHISPERS THROUGH A MASK**

 **oOo**

Sitting in bed, Bellatrix is putting a little too much effort in fluffing up the pillows on her lap. She focuses on her blows. The fabric that meets her knuckles looks smooth and soft but feels rough against her skin. Her hand doesn't want to come back for the next blow. Her arms hurt. Still, she keeps going.

She feels so weak. And the more she feels like that the more she becomes aware of the need to push her limits. This is not the kind of pain one can get high on during a fight, this is the kind of soreness that comes with atrophied muscles, this is the kind of weakness that can scare Bellatrix Lestrange out of her wits.

Her hand plunges into the pillow one last time as the sound of her short, shallow breaths fills the room.

"Are you quite finished?" Snape's very unconcerned voice comes from behind the newspaper he's holding in front of his face while sitting comfortably in a leather armchair across the room.

Bella snorts loudly, crossing her arms over her chest; the bandages wrapped around them scratch against the tender skin of still-fresh wounds, making her wince in pain. Snape casually flips through the pages of the Daily Prophet, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his thin lips.

Bellatrix responds by slowly dragging her fingernails back and forth over her wrapped up forearms; a childish dare she cannot help.

"Leave them alone." His raspy-voiced reprimand follows promptly, just as expected.

"But they itch."

He rolls his eyes at Bella's whiny tone. "Then you should have thought about that before hurting yourself, shouldn't you?"

"Fuck you, Snape." She spats. "Why are you still here anyway?"

"Because, apparently, you need someone to babysit you so you don't go and try to kill yourself." Sounds of paper edges slicing through the air.

"I-" She stares at him wide-eyed, speechless. "I wasn't trying to kill myself!" She blurts out.

"But of course, you were just feeling a little itchy, weren't you?" He drawls mockingly.

Bella's nostrils flare.

Snape lowers the newspaper he's holding, folding it carefully before placing it on a nearby table. His pale, bony fingers curl around a glass of firewhisky. He brings it to his smirking lips and takes a long sip, his obsidian irises never leaving Bella's smoldering ones.

"How dare you?" She asks in a dangerously low-toned hiss.

"Always the little ingrate." He has never looked more relaxed, taking his time with the next sip of the amber liquid.

"How dare you? I am no child, you can't talk to me like that! Fourteen years... for fourteen years I've had nothing but myself in Azkaban! No one was there, no one cared." Bellatrix looks away, the room and its other occupant now unfocused. Tears return to veil her eyes; trapped there, they won't fall. Visions play out on the glassy surface and when she speaks again, her voice sounds like it's coming from far away places. "Death was all I could smell while I crawled in the darkness, it was the only promise the Dementors offered me, the air becoming rich with its sweetness. I could almost taste it. A promise they would break every time. And I crawled to the edge so many times, curled up there, frozen, half-dead but still not quite ready to die."

Bella's head whips around, her eyes are ablaze with rage and accusation when they lock with his. The tiniest shiver runs down the dark-haired wizard's spine but all she can see is the same old hard-faced man.

"How could you know how that feels, Snape?"

And yet he does. But she cannot know, he won't tell. He never tells.

The glass he was holding joins the newspaper on the table with a soft clink. It rests there, almost completely empty.

"How could you ever understand me?" This time he can almost hear the crack in her voice. "You who were here all the time, perfectly safe, standing at the old fool's side! You turned your back on the Dark Lord while I sacrificed everything in his name!"

Bellatrix is panting, the force of her own words hitting her square in the chest, leaving Snape unharmed. And his eyes are already gleaming, knowing it's his turn to lash out.

"Are we having regrets, Bellatrix?" A raised eyebrow and a snide look on his face, he gets up from his chair.

She holds her breath, nails digging into the crumpled bedsheets pooling at her sides.

"Poor, little, wounded thing." He drawls wryly, drawing nearer to her bed. "Does it hurt? Does it hurt to know he would have simply let you die after all you gave him?"

If looks could kill...

"Because it really shouldn't." He stops in front of the bed, ignoring her threatening hisses. "We're nothing to him, we all know that. We live to serve. We want to please him, yes, but only to be spared the pain of his punishment. We pray to die before having to witness his wrath. That's how we survive. But you... You have always been a fool, Bellatrix. You grew fond of him, you started craving his praises for all the wrong reasons."

Bella's upper lip twitches, jagged teeth now bare.

Still, Snape goes on. "Fear is what keeps us all faithful. What is it that stopped you from running away, I wonder? Love? No, I don't think so. But whatever it was, now you think it's gone."

 _Yes._ Bella silently breathes out, her swollen heart wishing the truth could wither on Snape's faded lips. But there's more to come.

"Do you think you hate him?" He snickered. "You don't. You still got the smell of hope about you. You will kneel for yet another chance to make him proud. I sure wouldn't want to be in your sister's place, the biggest threat underneath this roof being her own family. You are a fool and Lucius is a coward; Narcissa is also vulnerable, because of the two of you."

Bellatrix doesn't hesitate to deliver her sharp answer.

"Don't you speak _her_ name."

Snape studies Bella's ashen face, the twitch in her jaw, her quivering lips, the dark pink rims around her nostrils... the hurt she's trying so hard to bury behind the hard look in her eyes.

"You think you're angry with her." A statement, not a question.

The only sound in the room that of Bella's clenched teeth pressing against each other.

"I _am_ angry with her. She turned her back on me." There, she said it. _Where were you, Narcissa? Damn. Where are you?_

Chasing thoughts of her sister inside of her mind, she doesn't notice Snape sitting down on the edge of the bed. Too close. She lets Narcissa go.

She eyes him warily and draws her knees up to her chest, hugging herself tight.

"You're angry with yourself because you've scared her away." His voice betrays no emotion; she doesn't trust her own to do the same.

"You saw her standing there, did you not?"

Bellatrix flinches. She tries to picture the blond witch standing in the doorway. Of course she remembers seeing her, how could she forget that beautiful vision, but was she really there? Maybe that's all she was, a vision. Nothing more. Her sister in the flesh would have stayed, she would've not run away... would she?

Looking back though, many years ago now, Bellatrix finds her answer. Narcissa has always feared her.

Snape's waiting.

"I... I couldn't see the blood. And then it was there, all over my skin. I thought my eyes were tricking me, I thought... I thought she wasn't really there in the end, that I'd only imagined her."

"She did come to see you." Snape quietly confirms.

Bella's heart stops. "How can I trust you?"

"You can't. But you can trust her. You know your sister, deep down inside. You know she'd come."

 _Why is he doing this?_ Bellatrix asks herself. _Why is he telling me these things? Surely not to make me feel better. No, it's Snape we're talking about; he always follows his own agenda._ _Is he hoping I will trust him from now on? Is he hoping I will betray the Dark Lord?_

She doesn't need his reasons, she decides. She has made up her mind.

"Show me."

Snape is taken aback by her request, she can tell. "You can't trust my memories more than you can trust me."

"I need to see her."

"I could feed you lies".

"I'd swallow them gladly." Her own words surprise her.

"Just to see her again?"

"Just to see her again."

Maybe trust is overrated, for there they sit, Severus Snape before Bellatrix Lestrange. He doesn't trust her. She doesn't trust him. And yet he lets her inside his mind and she dives deep into the beckoning darkness.

And he shows her.

* * *

 **AN:** My biggest thanks to all those who were kind enough to review or even silently read this far. I'm sorry, I cannot promise the next updates will be regular and frequent. What I can promise however is that I'm doing my best to carve out some time on my working schedule to write this story, which I love. Unfortunately, writing in English takes longer to me since it's not my first language. And yeah, well, I'm a little slow in general xD Hopefully some of you will bear with me and together we'll see what fate awaits our dear Bella :)

I love Snape, sorry if you feel like he's too present but I think Bellatrix needs him right now; he's the only one who can push her to the limit and make her see things for what they truly are. Don't worry, Narcissa will have more space. I long to write about her.

As always, all mistakes are mine, sorry about that.


	5. The Dark that Devours (Part 1)

**Chapter V**

 **THE DARK THAT DEVOURS**

 **\- Part 1 -**

 **oOo**

Bellatrix Lestrange knows darkness. Yet when Snape's own kind of obscurity swallows her whole, she finds she's not ready; not ready at all. Chilled to the bone, she curses herself for being the one who asked for it.

 _I shouldn't have trusted him._ Her every newborn thought is tinged with dread, every sensation spoiled by the realization of what she's done. _Why did I trust him? He's never going to let me out._

Darkness is darkness, right? Wrong. This blackness she does not know.

There was a time she used to steer the shadows she herself had pulled from the corners of her victims' minds. She was the one in control then, and Merlin, did she relish bathing in that feeling of boundless power. She could break down every door, crush every single shield. She was the strongest of them all, unstoppable. She strode proudly among the endless hallways unrolling inside their poor little weak heads, leaving only madness behind to haunt the ruins. The memory alone can almost get her high again. She isn't surprised to find she regrets nothing.

She doesn't get to call the shots inside Snape's mind, though.

Tongues of shadow swirl around her, whipping her skin with their coldness. The way they slice through the air seems to whisper every kind of untold things. Pure, undiluted pain. A thirst for vengeance that can never be quenched. Deep exhaustion.

The blows come so fast she is barely aware of what's going on. Shadows plunge violently straight into her chest, they clench tightly around her heart, they come out of her throat. She screams.

When darkness releases its hold on her at last, she falls to the ground in a heap of ill-fitting clothes and unruly raven curls. She growls, struggling to get back on her feet.

Under thundering skies of ink, Snape's walls are being raised, doors are being locked and paths cut off.

Words of blistering light stand out against the dark: I REMAIN THE SOLE MASTER OF MY MIND. Snape's message for her, the only condition on which he'll grant her limited access to his memories.

A giggle almost escapes Bella's chapped lips as she rolls her eyes; nothing better than one of Snape's well-renowned dramatic displays of authority to dissipate her fear. _Whatever, Snape. Just lead the way already,_ she snorts.

Drops of ink fall from above and rise again as silhouettes once they've hit the ground.

And suddenly, Bellatrix finds herself striding down one of Malfoy Manor's long, spacious hallways. She never liked this house. It is a beautiful household, granted, but too big and oh, so cold. As rich and opulent on the outside as dear Lucius is, and yet so utterly devoid of everything that truly matters; it always leaves a bad taste in her mouth. She felt sorry for her sister when she had to move here, it may be a house worthy of her name but it is most certainly not worthy of her.

Bellatrix stops in front of a door identical in every detail to the others along the hallway, except for the fact that this one is slightly ajar and giving off the now familiar stench of death.

She doesn't want to get in. She doesn't want to see. But Snape is the one who's running the game, and he steps into the room.

 _When is it that you've become such a coward, Bella?_

Warily, she allows her eyes to adjust to the absence of light in the room. Her breath gets caught in her throat when she sees her.

Sitting cross-legged on the windowsill, slender arms wrapped tightly around her upper body as if her life depends on it, moonlight filtering through the curtain of her long, smooth blond hair; Narcissa truly is a sight for sore eyes. Any creature, kissed by the light or cursed by the darkness alike, would be jealous of her ethereal beauty.

She looks so much younger, sitting like that. Bellatrix remembers a night of many years ago when her sister looked almost exactly the same. That night their father had told Narcissa she would have married Lucius. She didn't object. She never did. Unlike Bella, she knew her place. Later on, Bellatrix woke up to find Narcissa in her room, sitting on the windowsill, staring at the moon as if it were her last chance to bathe in its glow.

"Cissy? What are you doing here?" She asked in a sleepy slur, rubbing her eyes.

Narcissa turned to face her sister, with pale blue eyes afire with rage and a need she still couldn't quite understand. Oh, such fury; carefully and diligently smothered, year after year.

She should have known. _Does she hate me, I wonder?_ Bellatrix asks herself. _For not stopping her? For not saving her?_

"It's nothing, Bella," Narcissa said in her usual calm tone, walking over to her bed and slipping underneath the covers. She spooned her raven-haired sister, she placed a long, soft kiss on the top of her head, she said: "Let's just sleep." And she prayed for the dark thoughts to die before sunrise.

Shadows and moonbeams now chase each other across Narcissa's beautiful face, painting it in Snape's memory. Fury still dwells within her eyes, as well as a sadness so deep it makes Bella's guts clench in sympathy. She follows her sister's gaze. There's a bed nearby, bathed in the moonlight seeping through a second window.

Wrapped in dirty sheets, drenched in sweat and blood, Bella's gaunt body lays as motionless as a corpse. Uncared-for. Forgotten.

Bellatrix gasps. _Is this what I looked like when they first brought me here?_ She cannot help but avert her eyes. Her heart hammering against her ribcage, she focuses on Narcissa's silhouette once again. Unlike her, the blond witch is not looking away. Pity lingers in those icy blue irises of hers, and grief lies deep down within.

She looks like she's already in mourning. But Bellatrix is not dead. She's furious.

The raven-haired sister lunges forward like a wounded animal. Blinded by pain. Feral. Desperate.

Fear doesn't come to twist Narcissa's elegant facial features; sheer terror, on the other hand, takes over Bella's eyes once again. A spark in the darkness. She blinks rapidly, trying to figure out what just happened. She's bending over, skinny legs turned to stone underneath her skirts, pale arms stretching before her, claw-like fingers curving horribly toward someone they can never reach.

Deep, blood-chilling laughter runs through her mind, loud with derision. _Just a memory, remember?_

"This is not funny, Snape!" She hisses menacingly. "Why did nobody fight for me? You all just left me lying there rotting like I was already bloody fucking dead! Why did I have to _beg_ you to save me? You wouldn't even touch me!" Bella's eyes focus on her sister's once again, wishing they could acknowledge her presence even just for a second. " _You_ wouldn't even touch me." She whispers bitter words of betrayal.

At that very moment, Narcissa's head snaps in her direction, making her flinch violently.

"I asked for my sister back." Words of fury, almost unfitting to the blond witch's cold, clear voice.

"And I am, I am back!" Bellatrix yells, bewildered. But her voice won't come out; Snape's does instead.

"Well, Azkaban didn't go easy on her, that's for sure, but you do have her back now." He says emotionlessly.

Bellatrix clutches at her throat. His throat. _I want to speak to her. Let me speak to her, Snape. Give me back my voice._ But a solitary echo in the back of her mind is the only answer she will ever get from him right now: _Listen._

"That's a corpse, Severus! That's no sister of mine." Narcissa's voice breaks until it comes out in nothing more than a weak whisper, spoken to herself rather than to anyone else. "That's not my Bella."

And with that, every word dies within the dark-haired witch, unheard and unborn alike.

"And yet it is." Snape's deep voice states matter-of-factly. There will be no solace, not in his words. "Just be glad the Dark Lord had her body retrieved so that you can say your goodbyes."

Narcissa raises her chin in defiance, as only a Black married to a Malfoy can. "That's not the reason he sent for her and you know it. He wanted her alive so that she could die for him at some other, _more favorable_ moment." She spats bitterly.

"It's so unlike you to speak this recklessly, Narcissa."

The blond witch stands up. Slowly, she walks past Snape towards the motionless figure lying on the soiled bed. The hem of her robes brushes lightly against the smooth ceramic floor tiles and, for a couple of seconds, that's the only sound haunting the room. Silence falls again when she stops near the bedside table.

Narcissa looks down at her sister's face. Her skin is deadly pale and covered in beads of sweat, half hidden by the dark curls plastered to it. Her long eyelashes are wet and shiny; looking at them, Narcissa cannot help but wonder how many tears she has failed to wipe away for Bellatrix, how many years they've spent apart while she cried her eyes out in her lonely cell. There's a blueness to her lips that clashes with the skin's pallor; it's almost as if Death has already kissed them.

Fury sets Narcissa's heart and mind aflame at the thought of Bella's reasons to end up like this.

"Do you know how many times she has died for him already?"

"Should I care to know now?" Snape asks, unfazed. Unreadable.

Narcissa ignores him. "I told her so many times... She wouldn't listen. She wouldn't..." The blond witch hides her face and swallows hard before speaking again. "Where is he now? Where is he when she has given up so much for him?"

Snape sighs. "He will come to see her, soon enough."

"And what will he do?" Narcissa asks from over her shoulder, too afraid to look at him and see the answer written all over his face.

"I think you know the answer to that, Narcissa."

Her eyes close, a single tear rolling down her pale cheek. Unseen.

"Save her." She breathes out the words at last.

Snape raises his eyebrow, a curious expression on his face. "Are you suggesting I defy the Dark Lord?" Amusement is now clear in his voice. "And why would I do that? Why would I wish to die tonight?"

She turns around to face him. "Please, Severus. He will listen to you."

Snape snorts. "Fool."

And everything starts to spin around Bellatrix, fading into black. And falling into the darkness to her feels like being held in the arms of an old friend, a friend who knows and understands more than she ever will. And she trusts the blackness.

* * *

 **AN:** To those of you who were waiting for this chapter: thank you for your patience, I'm really sorry it took me sooo long. I hope this was worth the wait, at least. I absolutely loved writing it, even if it has been a tough ride. Right now I'm halfway through the second part, I already know what's going to happen next. All I have to do is write it down in between the overtime hours scheduled for this week. What could possibly get in the way, right? No, but seriously, I'll try my best to have it ready within a week or two at the most. Hope you're still enjoying this story.

Thank you for reading and for leaving your thoughts in the reviews.


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